Slip of the Tongue
by silhouettedredoblivion
Summary: Desperately missing Red, Lizzie agrees to celebrate the capture of their latest Blacklister with Ressler. The night to follow has unforeseen consquences, throwing Lizzie into an emotional downward spiral. Upon Red's return from business out of town, he receives a disturbing phone call. What will happen when Red discovers the source of Lizzie's grief? Lizzington/AU-post 2x08
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer**_: _I do not own The Blacklist and am not affiliated with them or NBC in any way._

**AN: **So guys, I have decided to begin writing this fic while I work out Chpt 3 of the Silver Lining (because it has been a pain to write, but will be posting Chpt 3 fairly soon)! You can have writer's block for one story yet, have so many other ideas to offer that do not fit into ongoing projects. I really couldn't fit it into TSL's events, so this was the result. Now I know _some_ of you do not like reading about our favorite FBI agent in a story with Ressler (I'm a huge Lizzington fan myself and ONLY ship them) but for this first chapter, Ressler had to take part in it in order to push the story forward, serving as a plot device, that will ultimately result in Lizzington. And I do apologize ahead of time to Keenler shippers…plz don't hate me lol! This was originally supposed to be a one-shot, but after handwriting it out, I realized it was going to have to be a multi-chapter fic with around 3-5 chapters. Hope this is to everyone's liking! This story is dedicated to **hestia-Prytaneum** and **FrostyFingers **for keeping my spirits high through this hiatus, because it has been an evil witch! I would not be able to get ANYWHERE without the words of encouragement, wonderful conversations we have, and the amazing fics you two write! And thanks again for everyone's loving reviews/follows/favorites of The Silver Lining, because if not for everyone's wonderful responses, I never would have went on to begin this one! **Red does not make his appearance until Chpt 2.**

_Song lyrics provided by __**Delta Rae – If I Loved You**_

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

**Misunderstood Vibrations**

_Cause if I loved you, I could be happy_

_I would make you the light of my world_

_I wouldn't wait, love, I'd marry you tomorrow_

_And we'd make love, and I'd be your girl_

_But I don't love you, much as I want to_

_I don't love you, no, it would be a lie_

_And you deserve love, you're better than a good day_

_And you'll find it, but just not in my eyes_

'_**Cause it aint here**__ love, no_

_And it just breaks my heart._

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><p>"Do you remember how pissed you were that first day I walked into the black site?" Lizzie recollects teasingly as she presses the cool tip of the bottle of beer to her lips to take a generous sip. Following a victorious week of apprehending the task force's latest blacklister, Isaiah Lewiston (aka The Emulator), Ressler had extended an informal albeit celebratory invitation to Liz. It entailed dropping by his apartment after the two left the Post Office in order to commemorate the closing of the case with a few drinks and friendly banter.<p>

They were sitting on Ressler's new onyx leather sofa facing one another slightly, an ice cooler within arm's length containing the last two beers of the twenty-four pack they had gulped down over the last three hours. Ressler drapes his left arm across the back of the sofa, Lizzie's shoulders just a few inches within grazing distance of his fingers. Soft background chatter from the television fills the cozy living area, helping to stave off any redundant awkwardness.

She rouses from the murk of intoxication at the sound of Ressler's alcohol-rasped voice, "I wouldn't call it 'pissed'. More like cautious, now that I think about it. But, yeah, how could I forget that day? I remember how giddy you were when Cooper called you into the office. Then, after you spoke with Reddington for the first time and came back into the control room? Whoa. The look on your face was priceless, Liz. You looked like someone who was just told they were actually born with two heads, and had been walking around their entire lives with no knowledge of it."

Reddington.

_Red_.

_Shit. I can't even have a normal conversation with someone without that infuriating bastard distracting me, even if he is a half a world away!_

Prior to leaving town two long weeks ago, Red deemed it of the utmost importance that Lizzie meet with him in front of his current safe house, saying he had the next name on the Blacklist prepared for her. He had provided her with intel essential to detaining Lewiston in the form of a black file folder. The kind he was fond of using frequently since it had become rather a signature article in his business with the FBI. Then, without so much as a single derisive comment uttered in her direction, Red told her he had business to attend to in Belgium, and would be in touch with her soon. He drove away, leaving Lizzie wanton and forlorn as she squinted to observe his Mercedes evaporating into the distance. She recalled how desperately she wished she had enveloped him in a crushing embrace before he had climbed into his car.

Lizzie would not dare cite her concerns to Ressler, but she was aberrantly afraid she would not see Red again for a great while.

Not being able to shake the instinctual sensation of doubt, Lizzie contemplates about how strange it was for Red to have such a curt demeanor as he was departing. She chides herself for her seemingly unwarranted paranoia, acknowledging that the past few months have been quite difficult for the both of them. Feeding her concerned nature, she continues to hurl her conscience headlong into guilt over the speculation that she could be the potential cause for his sudden clipped conduct. The fear for Red's safety that dangles in the forefront of her mind she feebly disguises as meager incertitude for the future of the task force. Liz has consistently been agonizingly aware that her feelings _should_ be divergent from those that inevitably cast a hazy cloud, hovering motionless above her consciousness. Ultimately, these traversing emotions slide a warm layer of affection over her heart, sending electrifying shivers that jar her bones any time she is in Red's company. Or when she is within earshot of his alluring voice. Or when she spots his ridiculous fedora perched on the desk in her office. Yep, Elizabeth Keen has it bad for Raymond Reddington.

Viewing Ressler as a type of proxy for Red's absence, Lizzie had wanted to spend time with him in a more social setting. The incontrovertible truth of the matter was she felt abandoned. It was her reoccurring pangs of loneliness during any given moment she was not with Red, which had Lizzie anxiously cringing over the return to her hotel room following each workday. In addition, sleep was out of the questions since the nightmares had returned shortly after the death of Berlin. God, the nightmares of the fire were so lucid that she would wake up clinging to the sheets of her bed in a startled sweat, gasping instinctively for air due to the overwhelming thick veils of smoke stifling her lungs. As she and Red's relationship became more devoted with each passing day, _new_ nightmares began manifesting themselves in her sleep. Visions of death and torment plagued her thoughts frequently in the waking world, spilling over into her subconscious at night. REM sleep was not something Lizzie had the luxury of receiving often. However, when she did, it was full of moving pictures causative to Red's suffering and demise. There was just one solitary fear that petrified her the most: to lose the man whom had been continuously devoted to her, and her psyche did good to remind her of it relentlessly.

She needed to fill her time in the presence someone whom she knew cared _something_ about her, and who could take her mind off all of the alarming deductions and sentiments she had been internally battling within her soul. That someone happened to be Ressler.

The only dilemma was that Ressler perhaps cared a little _too_ much. He realized long ago that he was in love with her, but knew expressing such may create ineptness between them at work if she did not reciprocate his feelings.

The duo erupts into a fit of bellowing laughter proceeding Ressler's impression of Cooper's "Dad" face, the expression he gives the team when he is exceedingly displeased with them. Lizzie snorts uncontrollably at the bizarre noise coming out of Ressler's mouth, covering her face and nose as she does it. "I don't think I have ever heard you laugh before, Ress! Oohhh my gosh. Whew!" She exclaims as she grins appreciatively, her face and stomach beginning to hurt from laughing with such intensity. All she can think is how grateful she feels that she is able to spend time comfortably with a man without the stress of expectations or strings. After all, Ressler _is_ her partner at the bureau, as well as her trusted confidant. "Yeah, well, I'm quite a serious guy." At that, both Liz and Ressler lose it once again, chuckling so uncontrollably they are nearly dumping their beers in the floor and all over one another unapologetically.

Stilling his movements after he quiets his laughter, Ressler tenderly extends his right hand to tuck away an errant strand of Lizzie's locks that had become adorably stuck to her mouth and eyes during all the hilarity. He glares at her admiringly for a beat too long, not being able to resist the overwhelming engrossment at how delicious her lips must taste.

Lizzie admonishes a charming grin, using her free hand to give him an appreciative pat on the hand. As she reclines back into a sitting position with her legs propped atop the wooden coffee table, Ressler keeps his eyes trained on her glowing face. He leans in gradually. Lizzie turns her head a fraction of an inch, as if to look away, only to realize what he is doing. He comes within a hair's breadth away from her lips, and remains there idly. She swallows rigidly, unsure of how to diffuse the situation without coming off like an absolute bitch. Her baby blue eyes flicker back and forth amidst his. She holds her breath reflexively before parting her mouth in hesitance to articulate her riposte.

"Ressler?"

"Hmm?"

"Don't . . ." Lizzie whispers in a mouse-like fashion, in hopes that the low volume of her voice will console him during her disallowance of what he aims to accomplish. "Don't what?" Believing Ressler would take her reticence as acceptance, she realizes he will not halt his maneuvers unless she outright rebuffs him. She is afraid to do so since she is struggling with how this is going to affect their friendship in the long-term. The last thing Lizzie wants to accomplish here and now is breaking Ressler's heart, but she knows she has to put an end to the situation before it reroutes itself into the realm of peculiarity.

Lizzie places both hands on his chest to push him away easily, lowering and shaking her head in discomfiture. She does not long for Ressler. Not like that. She values him in incalculable ways, their companionship being one of a kind and of great importance in her life, but she does not want to do anything crass to jeopardize their bond nor their working relationship.

"Liz, look. We're adults, right? Can you just humor me? Just . . . one time? Just this once. I _have_ to know what it's like to kiss _the_ Elizabeth Keen." He says as he smiles half-heartedly, a trace of doubt evident in his features. Bracing for impact, he knew he had to give it at least one last shot before giving up entirely and making a fool of himself.

"Ress, this is not a good idea. At all."

"I thought . . . ? I thought you were into me, Liz? I'm sorry. It's just . . . I thought . . . maybe . . . you felt the same? I thought I was getting the same vibes from you?"

Regarding him with a sympathetic tilt of the head (courtesy of spending too much time with Raymond Reddington), Lizzie tries to explain, "Jesus, Ressler. I _am_ . . . into you that is. You're my best friend. I'm . . . I'm sorry. _Really_ sorry. Ressler I care about you so much, you know that. You have been there for me, and you have covered my ass countless times, as I have for you. We're partners. Friends. And I even feel a sort of _familial _connection to you, as if you are my older brother. I am eternally grateful to have you in my life, in so many ways. But, it just can't be _that_ way."

Ressler narrows his eyes at her, seemingly offended by the stark contrast of the confession he had anticipated from her. The impression she had left upon his weary heart in these past, dark few months had been entirely wrong.

They have both consumed a copious amount of alcohol, significantly more than they are accustomed to, making the pair emotionally compromised and lowering their ability to steady their composures and judgments. "A brother, huh? Well that's just perfect." Ressler stands unexpectedly from the sofa, Liz staring up at him, blinking her eyelids frantically as he does it. Her admission has hurt his feelings and humiliated him, but she could not embrace his intimacy solely for his own sake. Reevaluating mindfully what just occurred, she shifts her position on the couch, jutting her head in a backwards motion. Her eyes brim with frustrated tears as she crinkles her eyebrows, physically emphasizing her huffed annoyance of the now encumbered air oppressing her.

Lizzie removes herself from the couch and crosses the room, padding her way in the direction she witnessed Ressler go. He is opening cabinet after cabinet with jittery hands, on a quest for something. Leaning her left side against the doorframe, Liz tries to console him ruefully, "Ressler, I have to admit. It would make sense. Us being a couple. We are two broken people who have been through hell in the past few years. I wish . . . I wish I could . . . love you like that, because you deserve that. You deserve someone who will love you unconditionally, despite your faults. Laughing with you in the light, and taking your hand while you linger in the darkness." Yet again, Lizzie finds herself unconsciously quoting Red. She knows she is more like that man than she is willing to recognize.

Ressler does not breathe a word, willfully refusing to look in her direction. He advances on his current task: searching for the pill bottle he tucked away months ago in a plastic food storage container. He is fuming with alcoholic rage inwardly, knowing if she does not depart soon, this demeaning plight is going to end in dissolution and ruin for the two of them.

Huffing in disappointment, Lizzie walks away, then calls back to him over her shoulder as she withdrawals from the charged tension, "I have to pee." The beer is working on her bladder like a water hose someone forgot to disengage, so now would be the perfect opportunity to go "use it" before she does something involuntary. After she finishes in the bathroom, she staggers back into to the living area, grabbing the remote off the coffee table. She is lost in thought with nothing to declare, so she stays seated on the couch with her last beer perched between her thighs as her head lolls drunkenly around her chest. Undecided of when or how to take her leave, Lizzie shakes her head at the ridiculousness of it all. Why could he not just remain friends with her, and leave it at that?

She hears commotion in the kitchen, and the resonant crash of breaking glass accompanied by Ressler shouting profanities. Launching herself from her seat and nearly nose-diving into the television, Lizzie stumbles into the kitchen to witness Ressler hovering over the sink with blood dripping from his hand, a ruby red-drenched towel swathed horizontally across the wound.

"Jesus, what happened?!"

"I- - I'm fi- - fine, Liz. You should go home. And call a cab because you are definitely not driving."

"Ressler! What. Happened?!" She attempts to walk over to him so she can assess the damage since he possibly may need a few stitches. As she extends her hands, Ressler tugs his injured palm close to his chest. Sighing loudly, he begins to lose his patience and is frankly ready for Lizzie to see her way out. She has inflicted enough damage for one night.

"Dammit, Liz! I just broke a drinking glass, that's all. Now. Go. Home . . . LEAVE."

"Look, I- - I was just trying to - -"

"To what? Drive me insane by hanging around after making me feel like a complete idiot? Do us both a favor and go home. And, it would be best if one of us didn't go to work tomorrow. I will call Cooper, tell him about my hand. It'll make it easy for you to - -"

"What in the _hell_ is your problem, Ressler? What do you want from me? I cannot help how I feel."

Ressler stares at Liz with such disproval that it elicits a crawling sensation underneath the surface of her skin. She cannot discern why he is being so tactless.

"Reddington." Ressler cites through gritted teeth. His expression is becoming more and more hostile by the second.

"Huh?" The whites of Lizzie's eyes beam like spotlights at the mention of Red's name. Ressler has honestly taken this whole thing with Red too personally, ever since the commencement of the task force. She can comprehend his loathe for the man, since he blames Red for Audrey leaving him. But, this is taking things to the edge of the map of sanity. A flash of insight strikes Lizzie between her eyes: Ressler is evidently covetous of the relationship Liz has with Red.

"I said, Reddington."

"Yeah I heard you the first time. What's your angle, Ressler?" He knows he has struck a nerve within her. He can see it in the method her body is responding to his presumptions, radiating an aura so momentous that she is practically screaming that his mentioning of the Concierge of Crime disgruntles her on an abysmal level. Expressions of shock, hurt, and truth cross the planes of Liz's face. Propping her hands on her hips with elevated irritation, Liz questions if maybe Ressler is dishonest about his sobriety. He has never had any issues with alcohol, albeit the reason why she agreed to drink with him tonight without having any reservations. But, his behavior is beginning to seem rather suspicious.

"You don't get it, do you? Here. Let me put it into perspective for you. Now, seriously. Just picture this. Pretend I'm Reddington. I bet you would want to kiss me now . . . wouldn't you?"

She bores holes into his sockets, refusing to react in any way that would allow him to draw conclusions. All at once, her emotions merge into one general category: rage. Ressler's sardonic tone is adding fuel to the fire burning inside of Lizzie. She is furious not only because he was the last person she thought would ever throw Red in her face, but because Red is not here to speak for himself. Or for her. She is astounded at her own self for how badly she desires to safeguard Red, no matter what is being said about him, no matter who it is doing the talking.

"You know that I'm right! I would put money on it that if he was here and made a move this instant, you would kiss him. You've got problems, Liz. You say you feel like I'm more of a _brother_ to you? Ha! Why should that stop us? Hell, you legitimately thought Reddington was your _biological_ father, but twenty bucks says you would still jump into bed with him if he walked in rig—"

Not having time to finish his insolence, Lizzie smacks him across the face with an open palm, using enough striking force to break the skin of his bottom lip. Ressler turns his head slowly toward her. He gives her a smug grin, darting out his tongue to lick the crimson liquid dribbling down his mouth and chin, lightly dabbing it with his forefinger to examine it. Her maw hanging agape, she stares at him with the most incredulously piercing gaze he has ever witnessed. She feels the culmination of dozens of emotions ascending in her throat and igniting a blistering fury of fervor in her chest; all bundling together to plaster themselves around her widened mouth and saucer-like eyes. She realizes the hot liquid that is cascading down her reddened cheeks are tears, and quickly swabs them away with her shirtsleeve.

Alcohol has a strange way of taking a seemingly minute misconception, and converting it into a fucking global pandemic.

With sorrowful eyes and a heavy heart, she speaks in a desolate tone, "I hope you're proud of yourself, you insecure, hypocritical asshole." Her pitch is barely an audible murmur, but her point still reaches him. Regardless if what Ressler said was indeed a fact, she never could have predicted he would speak such a disgustingly despicable assortment of words to her.

She can no longer stand in the same vicinity, the same room, or even the same building as him, because it is making her nauseous. Ressler does not articulate another word, but simply observes Liz walking out of the confines of the kitchen. He hangs his head as he hears the front door open, only to swing shut with a thunderous slam. Crossing his arms as he leans back against the smooth marble countertop, Ressler rebukes himself for unloading on Lizzie. "Shit." He could easily blame it on the alcohol. Knowing he should not have said such insensitive remarks, he mentally notes to be certain that when he sobers up he must express his contrition to Liz.

He screwed up royally tonight. Luckily, he would not be going into the Post Office in the morning, so Liz should have a little time to cool from her anger. He is relieved Red was not nearby to overhear his unwarranted outburst. Regardless of his egotism and his admonishing of a peacock-like attitude whilst in Red's company, he was surreptitiously afraid. Not of Reddington, per say, but, rather of his methods. He understands more than anyone that Reddington would move mountains for Liz whilst destroying everyone in his line of sight, especially if a person such as himself had intentionally hurt her.

After carefully bandaging his lacerated hand in gauze, Ressler maladroitly staggers his way to his bedroom, bumping into pictures on the wall every other stride. Shutting his eyes as he slumps into his empty queen-sized bed, the agent's last thoughts before descending into a dreamless slumber were of the kiss that could have happened, had it not been for Raymond Reddington worming his way into the heart of Elizabeth Keen. What he is not aware of as he falls asleep, is that he has irreparably altered the course of their friendship forever.

**_TBC_. . .**

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><p><strong>P.S. :<strong> Please leave me a review to tell me what you think! I count on you all's honesty and coolness to keep me going ;) And please, don't beat me up too badly over Ressler. l I know that Donald isn't exactly acting like Mr. Nice Guy in this story, but that's just how I imagined it in my head if the situation arose, since he has his own demons he struggles with. At any rate, I still love you guys and thanks for taking the time to read!


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer**_: _I do not own The Blacklist and am not affiliated with them or NBC in any way._

**AN: **THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH for the follows/faves/reviews! I am grateful beyond words! This one was actually kind of fun to write since I had never really written any story in this manner. The only trouble I really had with it was choosing a stopping point since I actually had to split this one into two chapters! Chapter 3 will be as soon as I add a few finishing touches. Thanks again guys, much love! And please tell me what you think of this chapter as well!

_Song lyrics provided by __**VMV Nation – Illusion**_

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

**Someone to Call Home**

_I know it's hard to tell, how mixed up you feel_

_Hoping what you need, is behind every door_

_Each time you get hurt, I don't want you to change_

_Because everyone has hopes, you're human after all_

_But feeling sometimes wishing you were someone else_

_Feeling as though, you never belong_

_This feeling is not sadness, this feeling is not joy_

_**I truly understand, please don't cry now**_

_Please don't go, I want you to stay_

_I'm begging you please, please don't leave here_

_**I don't want you to hate, for all the hurt that you feel**_

_The world is just illusion_

_Trying to change you._

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><p>Upon returning from Belgium, Dembe drove Red out to his cabin tucked away a mere few miles from Elliot Knob, a mountain peak just outside the picturesque and sparsely populated town of August Springs, Virginia. This small but quaint dwelling was in actuality the only residence of safe harbor he personally owned, holding a snug albeit bleak cocoon of memories of his family.<p>

As they pull into the dirt drive, Red exits the vehicle exhaustedly. No matter how often he jaunts across the globe, he unavoidably experiences jet lag for the bare minimum of a day or so. His back aches and his knee throbs from prior injuries, only making his languor all the more frustrating. If the occasion ever emerged to have at least one good night's slumber, he would gladly relish it and could die a blissful man.

Unfortunately, life can never be that simple for Raymond Reddington. He believes it also has somewhat to do with his aging mind and body, in addition to the pressure of being a distinguished criminal operating his own worldwide business. After all, executing the whims and wishes of other transgressors of the law in exchange for exorbitant sums of money would take its toll on anyone.

His extensive history in the criminal underworld has made him a mark for shady organizations and individuals whom he has forsaken or unforgivably misrepresented in some way, be it personal matters or within the dimension of professional relations. His brain resides unalterably on high alert, rejecting the idea of a peaceful sleep so that he is capable of glancing over his shoulder every minute of each day, on the grounds of him ostensibly being the most sought-after man on the planet by foes and every bureaucratic institution of law known to man.

On that fateful day he surrendered his freedom and expressed his stipulations to only speak with Elizabeth Keen, he acquiesced before walking through the doors of the FBI's headquarters that his sleepless nights were to get progressively worse. _And most of all, I want to sleep. I want to sleep like I did when I was a boy. Give me that, just one time._

Approaching the front door whilst Dembe gives him the all-clear, Red's burner begins buzzing in Dembe's pocket. The dark, colossal bodyguard belatedly retrieves the phone from his shirt pocket, flipping it open as the duo saunter into the living room.

"Yes?"

"It's Gerald. There seems to be a problem with the girl. Put Red on."

Red quirks an eyebrow questioningly at Dembe's uneasy appearance. Extending the phone in Red's direction, Dembe quietly but suspiciously cites who it is, and the purpose of their call. "It's Gerald. He believes there could be an issue with Agent Keen."

_What has Lizzie gotten into now?_

"Gerald, what do you have?"

"I'm not sure. I followed her and Agent Ressler back to his apartment a few hours ago. I've been sitting in the lobby, waiting for her to come out, but . . . um, I don't things are going very well. I heard shouting. Lots of it. And you told me to report _any_ sort of disturbance."

"Where is she now?"

"She has yet to come out. Do you want me to intervene? Because if there is the slightest chance of him getting physical wi—"

"There's not. I don't trust him, but I do not believe he would ever harm Lizzie. Gerald, we will be there in an hour. Call me while we are en route with an update if there is anything else to report."

Red closes the phone and hands it back to Dembe standing next to him, as he nods in comprehension back to Red. He clenches and unclenches his fists anxiously, aiming to rationalize traveling an hour just because Lizzie and Donald are having a little spat. _But what if it is far more than that? I have to be sure_, he deliberates to himself. Animosity rumbles through his veins violently, broiling to the point of instilling tremors in his gut. Intrinsically, he senses that something is amiss. And he always trusts his pinging instinctual radar.

He would not let anyone with the exception of Dembe see him like this, especially where Lizzie is concerned. He is a man of reserved emotion on the exterior, and persistently slides an unruffled façade over his features to thwart anyone from analyzing him and his true objections in any given situation.

Dembe exits the cabin hastily, Red hot on his heels. Red decides not to call Lizzie on his way, dejectedly aware of how she will counter his decision to meet her at Ressler's apartment. He sits in the backseat with his head propped against the headrest sullenly, his body exuding vexation from the trepidations of what this night could bring.

Whatever comes of it, he feels compelled to tell Lizzie what has been eating at him these past few months, and offer an explanation for his condensed mannerisms upon leaving for Belgium. He knows things are quite bumpy at the moment, and must choose the proper time lest he drag her further into the pit of despair.

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Descending the staircase adjacent to Ressler's apartment, Lizzie walks through the lobby, only to suddenly halt in front of it when she sees a middle-aged man wearing a beanie hat and a black leather jacket peering up briefly from his newspaper at her. Lizzie knows she looks like hell, her hair a bit disheveled with her mascara running down her face, but she cannot muster up enough modesty to care.

She does not seem to be wary of Gerald as he sits there, acting as if he is still reading. She shuffles on past him, approaching the revolving doors of the building to abscond from this train-wreck of a night. Walking at a brisk pace as she departs the apartment building into the bitter January atmosphere, Lizzie makes it safely to her car without incident. She is visibly upset by the confrontation she just had with Ressler, and reeling from the alcohol's effects weighing down her limbs did not assist her physical and emotional state of disarray.

Drawing her phone out from the pocket of her wool coat, she decides to call a taxi from the warmth and security of her vehicle. Before deciding to call the taxi service, she perilously clutches the phone in her hands, scrolling through her list of contacts. She immediately stills her movements when the contact for which she was searching appears. Nick's Pizza.

She needs him.

She needs him _right now._

Damn him for making her feel this way. For causing her existence to be inconceivably intricate, making her fall in love with him, then leaving for weeks without a single phone call, and not having a scant indication if he would make it back to her in one piece.

Lizzie is consciously aware of how broad the scope of her affection stretches for Red, but has never had the audacity to express it to him, nor would she now if presented the opportunity on a silver platter.

It is impossible.

And wrong.

And terrifyingly exciting.

She is morally bound by her career with the FBI and intrinsically faithful to the task force, so she certainly _should not_ entertain the notion of having such a romantic rapport with Red.

She _shouldn't_.

But, _she does_. And often.

A relationship between an FBI agent and one of the most notorious criminals in the world is comparative to her meeting the Pope: it is a nice thought, but realistically speaking, it is not going to happen considering the odds.

If anyone enquired Lizzie about her true feelings, she would refutably deny it and provide them with a conjectural stance that it was quite the opposite. She denied it to herself for an entire year before coming to her senses, and knows she most likely could gather her composure long enough to showcase a convincing impression that she loathes the man.

However, she never has been a persuasive liar or manipulator in her own life. Although, anytime she enters into a role undercover with Red at her side, the fabrication seems to flow out of her unpretentiously. With Red at her side, she feels as if she could do absolutely anything with his comforting words of support that linger in the very depths of her soul, igniting an inferno within the core of her being that she has never experienced in her transitory thirty-two years here on Earth.

It is maddening to know the man truly brings out the best and the worst in her.

He is her sickness.

He is her cure.

The uncertainty is ripping Lizzie's heart to shreds. Since she has been vigorously drowning in love for this man, she has let him conclude that, for the most part, she despises him with every strand of her existence. As she sits in the somber air shrouded in the darkness of the car, she silently vows to herself to enlighten him the moment she even catches a glimpse of him again.

This all began with him digging out a cozy infinitesimal corner of her heart, building a nest there for him to reside. It inexorably grew and flourished into a love that can only be defined as otherworldly.

He is no longer a miniscule portion of her heart.

No.

He has devoured her entire spirit, and now is holding sole ownership of her beating heart.

Staring at the screen, she chickens out. Lizzie's emotions boil over and merge once more, resulting in the most painful sort of bellowing moans of anguish. She cries so loudly, her ears begin to thrum and ring from the sheer pressure of the involuntary sobs escaping her mouth. Grinding her teeth in anger, her mourning continues without interruption from the outside world. Laying her head on the steering wheel choking back sobs of remorse and agony, she whispers to herself, "I can't do this anymore." Her face tear-blotched and soaked with moisture, she finally leans her head back against the headrest to shut her fuzzy orbs.

If it were not for her sitting in a reclined position, she would have been startled so badly by the faint tapping on her window, that she would have walked around for a solid week with a sore goose egg on her head. Her eyes dance alarmingly across the featureless face. It is too dim to see who it is by their face, but as Lizzie shifts her focus upward, the silhouette of one of his trademark Valencia fedora gives him away.

_Shit._

Red catches a glance of her face illuminated by her dashboard. He is becoming increasingly unhappy by the second upon seeing how badly she has been crying. Puffy eyes? Check. Reddened and flushed cheeks? Check. Makeup running amock? Check. Speaking so nasally he can barely understand her? Check. Lizzie shoves her keys into the ignition, mashing down on the window button.

"Lizzie? Whatever are you doing sitting out here like this?"

"Trying to decide if I wanted to go back to the hotel or sleep in my car. You're back?"

"Yes. Lizzie, what is wrong? And why in God's name would you want to sleep in your car?

"Were you following me?"

"Not me, no. An associate of mine has been since I left town. I also told him to keep an eye on you this evening. He called to inform me that he overheard you and Donald get into an argument. Well, a bit of a screaming match, as he put it. Then called to say you had been sitting in your car for quite a while. I wanted to be sure you were alright."

"Oh . . . r—right. I'm guessing he was the guy in the lob—by. Wait, how long have you been back? And where is Dem—be?"

"Dembe dropped me off. Lizzie, what has you so upset? And you're talking quite strangely . . . "

Red bites the inside of his cheek as he eyes her curiously, realizing he was right about his instincts. Something else is going on here. He is a very observant man, but he did not want to be presumptuous considering her fragile state. He was going to try to encourage Lizzie to explain her demeanor and the situation with Donald.

She is obviously not pleased with his failing to contact her as soon as he returned. Lizzie can barely keep her eyes open, her gaze bouncing from his face down to his tie, then straight ahead. Red has seen enough. He crosses in front of the car, making his way to the passenger's side to settle in next to her, and to escape the chilling single-digit wind blowing into his face and ears.

For a moment, he does not say a word. He just looks at her with such adoration, like he so lovingly has since the day he invaded into her life. He appears to be in deep thought and consideration about her present condition of distress. Placing his left hand atop hers lying on the middle console, he gives it a tender reassuring squeeze. _Everything is going to be okay._

"So do tell, Lizzie. Why did you need to sleep in your car? Are you simply that exhausted?"

She shakes her head, and begins to sniffle. She refuses to look in his direction, glaring at the nothingness outside the window. Fighting back the sharp sobs that threaten to escape her throat, Lizzie lets her tears descend in silence. When her breathing becomes slightly ragged, that is when he smells it. The alcohol.

"Ah. You have had a few drinks. I will drive you home, alright?" Saying it without realizing the content and meaning of his words, Red immediately clamps his eyes shut in regret, a small disapproving hum rattling in his throat.

"I don't have a home, Red."

She pitifully turns her head toward him faintly to make direct eye contact with him, her lips turning up into such a distressing frown. Her ducts have decidedly been thrown into overdrive, forcing her eyes to brim with an excruciatingly painful amount of moisture that is causing her nose to congest and her temples to throb. He sees how upset she truly is, and it rips his heart out of his chest. His pulse jumps on the side of his neck, and his ire attempts to override his obligation to remain calm. _So help me God, if Donald had anything to do with this. . . _

"Yes you do. You will always have a home as long as I'm around." He says ever so softly, giving her the most compassionate smile, all the while acknowledging no amount of promises or explanations will help her at this point in the night. The deep rumble of his voice brushes over her skin, sending tingles rolling down her spine and warming her center. He is completely oblivious to the fact that just the purr of his voice is the only comfort she needs. The tenor in which he is enunciating in is synchronously soothing and erotic, and she wishes she could listen to him speak to her in so many variegated scenarios that she has mulled over on a regular basis.

"What happened, Lizzie?"

"It's not important."

"I'm sorry, but you're wrong. It's important to _me_. I care about you Lizzie, _very_ much, and I will not stand by and allow someone, _anyone_, to _intentionally_ hurt you. That being said, what did Captain TRESemme have to say?"

Lizzie parts her lips with a smack, snaking her tongue around them to lick the salt away and to wet them I order to speak. They are staring at each other now with such intensity that Lizzie feels her heart jump in her chest. With her heart rate rising, she knows she has to tell him. She is thankful that she is intoxicated, otherwise she would not have the courage to explain any of it to him.

"It wasn't just Ressler. Red, it is like the culmination of everything, too. It's killing me inside. I mean, it was him that upset me tonight, but it was just what he said that pissed me off. . . and really hurt me since it came from him. But, he was right."

Keeping his eyes fixed on her, Red braces himself for what is to come. He knows how badly she has wanted to give up on everything and everyone since Sam died. She is stronger than she realizes, but it crushes him to see her swimming in immense grief.

"It all started with him trying to kiss me. I rejected him, and told him that I didn't feel that way about him."

Red cringes internally, squaring his shoulders a bit as he narrows his eyes at her. He is taking a mental tally of every detail she provides, and if he deems Ressler's actions to be more despicable than he originally thought, well, he has an endless supply of weaponry to choose from lest Red having to take extreme, but necessary measures. Anything for Lizzie, _anything_.

"Then, he got pissed off and stormed into the kitchen. He broke a drinking glass and split his hand open and I tried to help him, but he wouldn't let me. Then he told me to get out. Said that I had problems, and basically that there _is_ something wrong with me because I wasn't willing to kiss him, but was willing to kiss a man I thought to be my father at one point."

Red suddenly sucks in a lungful of air, whipping his head away from her to gaze out the windshield into nothingness and starts chewing on the inside of his cheek. He succumbs to the overpowering rage knocking around in his gut, and reaches for the door handle to get out.

Under any other typical circumstance, Red never indulges his impulses, but rather exchanges them for logical, well thought-out decisions. In this case concerning Lizzie, he is incapable of desisting his emotions from besting him. _When you love someone, you have no control. That's what love is: being powerless. _

Lizzie grabs his left arm to stop him, her eyes pleading with him not to leave her in the vehicle alone, "No! Please . . . Red. Don't." Still latched onto his arm, she shakes her head in disapproval of whatever Red was about to do to Ressler.

Red glances down at her hands squeezing fiercely around his bicep, taking her shaky hand back into his but this time, intertwining their fingers. His eyes saturate with unspeakable fury, but it begins to fade as she brings their interlocked fingers to her warm mouth. She kisses the back of his hand and the tops of his knuckles, allowing her lips to remain a bit too long.

His expression is of shock and awe: as his smooth jaw hangs slack, his pupils fill with want and anticipation. Lizzie has rendered the Concierge of Crime speechless. He stares longingly where her mouth is making contact with his skin, watching her lips extract themselves, while they become temporarily stuck to his skin a bit as she pulls back to separate them. He has never witnessed such fondness from this beautifully fierce woman. He is absolutely stunned.

Red has so many sensations at the forefront of his psyche that he eventually allows to them to spill out onto the features of his face. His eyelids flicker passionately, and the only sound that can be heard is the heaving of their chests as they struggle for each breath.

Red gulps harshly, his throat running dry, frantic for a drink of her. All of the nerve endings in Lizzie's body spark and sputter, becoming ultra sensitive to touch, but begging for it nonetheless. She wants so badly to place her lips over his in this moment to taste him, but she is fearful he will rebuke her since she is quite inebriated, and Red's gentleman scale is always off-the-charts chivalrous.

Red steadies himself against the beckoning of desire that is flooding his senses. He places both hands softly on each side of her head, bringing her down to his moist lips, kissing her forehead. Pulling back again, Red smiles so brightly and lovingly that it lights up his weary face, "Come on, let's get going. You need to lie down."

She nods her head slowly, knowing all will be all right come morning, with the exception of the piercing hangover she will be required to endure. Red gets out to stride over to the driver's side, swiftly opening the front and back doors. She eyes him warily, but then understands what his intentions are. He reaches inside to scoop her up under her knees, latching one arm around her back and side. He lays her down easily in the back seat, taking off his coat to drape over her curled body. Climbing into the driver's seat, Red revs up her car and diverts into the late-night traffic of Alexandria's roadways.

The only thoughts conjuring in his mind as he blankly stares at the road in front of him are that of Donald Ressler. _Just you wait, Donald. Tomorrow, you and I are going to have a bit of fun, and you are going to love it about as much as Lizzie adored your kind words of endearment tonight._

**P.S. – **Hope you all enjoyed it! Thanks again for reading


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